


whispered & meant

by bluerthanyou



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Best Friends to Lovers, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shy George, alex and george being baby for 8k words, mild homophobia but it's hardly there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerthanyou/pseuds/bluerthanyou
Summary: Alex isn’t bothered, just smiles widely at him before holding out his pinkie finger. “Pinkie-swear that we’re always best-friends.” Alex is earnest, hair messy and damp from the rain.George isn’t sure what a pinkie-swear is, but he locks his little finger around Alex’s anyway, and in his heart, he knows that it means something to him.or, George grows up in a small town, and Alex Elmslie is the human reincarnation of the sun.
Relationships: George Andrew/Alex Elmslie
Comments: 23
Kudos: 103





	whispered & meant

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoy this :)
> 
> title is from 'a stone' by okkervil river.

George is ten years old and calmly reading a book about greek mythology in the first-aid room of his school when somebody bursts through the doors and comes to a halt in the middle of the room. George looks up in surprise but doesn’t say anything.

“Hello,” says the child, wearing a football kit which is covered in mud. “Where’s the first-aider?” 

George blinks at him, before looking back down at his book. “She went for her lunch break. I will only go and get her if it’s serious,” he replies shortly, turning the page. He’s far more interested in his book anyway, and eager to find out more about the different gods and goddesses over the page, but the child doesn’t leave the room and instead continues to stand there.

“This boy on my team got tackled and he’s, like, scraped his knees,” the kid says excitedly. “Like, there’s blood and stuff.”

George raises his eyebrows. “Lots and lots of blood?”

“Some.”

It’s not worth George going to fetch the first-aid teacher for a grazed knee, but the injured child probably needs to have his wound cleaned and to wear gauze to stop an infection, so George sighs and closes his book. He stands from the desk and reaches up to a shelf where the infamous green first-aid box is placed.

He hands it over to the dirty-looking kid. “There you go,” he says, sitting back down. He’s fully ready to re-open his book and finish reading this chapter. He can’t deal with any distractions right now.

“I can’t do first-aid,” the kid says. “Only adults can.”

“What about the football teacher?” George asks, already wanting this annoying child to go away and leave him to be by himself. “Can he do it?”

“We were playing on our own because the football teacher went home.”

George sighs and gets up. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He shuts the large book on the table with a resounding thud before grabbing the first-aid box and slinging it under one arm.

The kid looks surprised. “I thought only grown-ups could do first aid.” And George knows that it’s rude to tell somebody to shut up, but he says it very loudly inside his mind and hopes that the boy hears his thoughts. 

“I read books about it,” George says as they leave the room together and head towards the football pitch outside. “It’s very simple.” 

“Can you tell me about it?”

George blinks at him. “I’ll just let you borrow you the book, but you have to give it back because I spent all my pocket money on it.”

When they reach the football field, there’s a crowd of people in the middle of the grass, circling around the centre line. When they walk close, the kid shouts triumphantly from beside him, “First-aid is here!” And points at George dramatically.

At the shout, the group of kids turn around to face him and George’s face burns in embarrassment. He hates being looked at, especially by the cool football kids who jostle him in the corridors. A few of the kids laugh but George tries his very hardest to ignore them and pushes through the crowd into the centre. There’s a kid on the ground, limbs covered in mud, dirty tear-tracks on his cheeks and knees dripping with blood.

“Oh,” George says, unsure of how to socially approach this situation. “Who are you?”

The latter sniffles and looks at him, wet-eyes surrounding a vivid shade of blue. “Alex,” he says. “Who are _you_?”

“George,” George says. “What happened to you?” He kneels down on the muddy ground, and his smart black school trousers are probably ruined by now, but he promised himself that he would be good for the first-aider until she got back. And helping somebody else is a very good thing to do.

“I got slide-tackled and then…and then, I fell onto the grass and these other people tripped over me and then I grazed my knees, and it wasn’t as bad at first, but now it hurts a lot and the blood is making me feel like I’m spinning,” Alex rambles, pointing at the offending knees. “It was an accident though, and it was just because I was in the way of the ball, not because I actually did something wrong.”

George doesn’t say anything, too bewildered at how much this kid talks.

“My mum says I am very accident prone,” Alex adds. “I always hurt myself.”

George opens up the first aid kit and rips open one of those little disposable flannels that is used to clean blood and dirt from an open wound. He shuffles forwards in the muddy grass and presses the flannel against Alex’s dirt and blood-covered knee. 

“That hurts,” Alex says, visibly tearing up again. 

“It’s meant to hurt,” George sighs. “It means it is getting better.” He finishes cleaning one knee and begins on the other one. The crowd surrounding Alex has mostly dispersed to play another game, leaving just Alex and George sitting in the middle of the football field. 

“Are you allowed to do first-aid?” Alex asks, stretching out his legs.

George shrugs, pushes hair away from his face. “I don’t know. But I know what I’m doing.”

And then once he’s cleaned the wound, George applies a gauze to the knee with the deep, painful looking cut. “You will have a scar there,” he says simply. “You should keep the bandage on for a few hours.”

“You’re smart,” Alex says. “You must be the cleverest person here.” And the kid is so honest that George burns red like a tomato. He’s never been complimented like that before.

“Really?” George asks. “There is probably somebody who is more smart than me.”

“No, it’s you,” Alex says.

And George doesn't forget that.

Two days later, George is sitting in the first-aid room again, but this time he’s reading a book about sports cars. He enjoys brushing his fingers against the page and imagining himself owning an expensive car that he drives around the city. He would probably own a Ferrari, but then again, a Lamborghini would be pretty cool too. Especially if it was a black one.

But then there’s the familiar sound of feet running past the room as they normally do during break-time, but this time they halt in the doorway. It distracts George from his reading, and he looks up to see who’s disturbing him. 

Alex grins at him from the hallway, and he’s the kid from the other day on the football pitch, except he’s no longer covered in blood and dirt, and is sporting two wonky plasters on both of his knees. “Hi George!” He says excitedly. “I didn’t know you hang out here.”

“Yes, I come here every day to be on my own,” George says. “I don’t like the noise in the hall.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Why not? It’s fun!”

George shrugs. “How are your knees?” He says, rather proud of himself for changing the subject so well.

Alex laughs, a radiant smile spreading across his face. “It’s better now,” he points down at the injury. “Do you like the plasters? They have footballs on them.” Then he looks back up at George for some sort of confirmation, cheeks ruddy pink.

“I don’t like football,” George says simply.

Alex’s face falls. “You don’t like them? I was looking for you because I thought you would like to see them.” The excitement has gone from his eyes, and George feels a little bad.

“They…they look nice on you,” George hastily adds. “They…they match your shirt which is green.” He feels embarrassed after saying it, because he finds giving and receiving compliments a difficult task.

Alex gasps excitedly, a huge smile stretching across his face. “Yes, they match! You’re right,” he says. “Also, can I ask you something?”

George shuffles awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Do you want to come and watch me play football?” Alex asks, looking at his feet nervously. “Maybe you will like it more after you see me play!”

George wants to say no because he can’t think of anything worse than hanging around in the cold watching a scrawny kid run after a glorified piece of inner-tube. But Alex is eager and looking at him with blue, expectant eyes. So George mumbles out an ‘okay’ and allows himself to be dragged out of the first-aid room by Alex, sports-car book abandoned on the table.

Alex Elmslie is George’s first friend.

*

From that day on, they’re close friends. Every day of school, George sits on the bench beside the football field and watches as Alex chases after a ball, watches as Alex gets accidentally knocked into by one of the bigger boys. Watches as Alex scores a goal and runs around the field in victory. Because Alex might be smaller than the other kids, but he definitely knows how to score a goal.

And after he finishes football every day, Alex always runs over to him joyfully and explains every single technicality of the game while George listens intently. And after that, they go to the library and sit opposite each other at the tiny wooden tables while George avidly describes everything to Alex from whichever book he’s reading at the time.

Maybe they’re best-friends, but George hasn’t had one before, so he doesn’t know what counts as one. He hopes they end up as best-friends though, because although he might not admit it out loud, spending time with Alex is the most fun he’s ever had in his life.

Today, three months after they met on the football field, is no different. Alex is covered in mud again as he walks off the pitch, grinning with gappy teeth as he breaks into a jog to make his way over towards him. “Did you see how far I kicked that ball?” Alex says. “It nearly went into a hedge but Connor stopped it just in time. And then I scored a goal, George!”

George grins at him, happy because Alex is happy. “I saw it,” he says as they begin to walk back across the field towards where the library is. “It was so _cool,_ Al.”

“I swear it went as tall as a skyscraper,” Alex breathes, taking a swig from his water bottle.

“That’s impossible,” George says matter-of-factly. “But it still went really high.”

They both head to the library like normal and find their normal table in the corner of the library, hidden by two bookshelves. George likes spending time with Alex here, because they’re hidden from the rest of the room and can’t be found by the annoying teachers or the popular football boys. 

They read a book about superheroes together, and gape at the beautiful drawings and stylised photos of each character. They give each other superhero names and giggle at the funny words in the book, while the entire time George can’t quite believe that Alex is listening to him, and still can't quite believe that Alex is even his friend. 

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Al,” George blurts out suddenly, and he doesn’t know why he’s said it because Alex must think he’s such a loser for being so sentimental.

but Alex looks up at him, cheeks still pink from the cold and the tip of his nose red at the end. He smiles at George, eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you’re _my_ friend!”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to be friends with me,” George says. “Because I’m not cool like the football boys.” He fiddles with a page in the book, unable to keep eye contact with his friend.

“Well, you’re more fun than them,” Alex says defiantly. “I like you best anyway.” 

George goes red, absolutely flattered at the way Alex is so nice to him.

“In fact, I want you to be my best-friend,” Alex whispers, covering the side of his face so nobody else can hear their conversation. It feels like they're infinite, feels like they can do anything at that moment.

“Really?” George asks, gaping at him. “I haven’t ever had a best-friend.”

Alex isn’t bothered, just smiles widely at him before holding out his pinkie finger. “Pinkie-swear that we’re always best-friends.”

Alex is earnest, hair messy and damp from the rain. George isn’t sure what a pinkie-swear is, but he locks his little finger around Alex’s anyway, and in his heart, he knows that it means something to him.

*

George is thirteen and in secondary school when he first realises that Alex isn’t just his best mate, but the centre of his entire universe. Alex is like the sun, and George and everybody else are just little planets that orbit around him. He’s okay with that though, because Alex is confident, loud and chatty. He radiates warmth and comfort whenever they’re together, and he’s made to be seen that way because Alex is practically everything rolled into one human being. He means the world to George.

They both gain a few inches, and Alex gains one or two extra. He’s still slim and spindly, arms and legs not that much broader than when he was a kid. He’s grown into his face, however, nose more rosy and upturned, and golden freckles scattered over his nose and cheekbones. George is positively in awe of him, because he _glows_ whenever George looks at him.

And while Alex has grown upwards, George becomes more built. He’s not a skinny kid anymore, he’s got a strong jawline and the beginnings of facial hair ghosting his features, and his voice has _dropped._ He’s still shy, and prefers the comfort of a quiet room with Alex rather than the busy and bustling atmosphere of the secondary school canteen, but he feels less invisible anymore. 

In fact, the other day, a girl told George he was cute when he was walking into school. He’d never had girls talk to him like that before, and he wondered what it meant for him. Was he not as pitiful and lonely as he was made to believe?

He’d excitably told Alex about the girl the second he sat down next to him in Biology, out of breath because he’d ran to class.

_“Was she pretty_ ?” _Alex had asked, doodling something at the top of his notebook. He didn't look George in the eye once, just continued doodling._

_George thought about the word ‘pretty’ and what it meant in his mind. Yes, the girl was pretty. She’d got dark brown curls and soft brown skin that reminded George of autumn and cold hands wrapped around hot mugs of coffee. It was pretty to George. But to him, it wasn’t the prettiest._

_“Yes, she was quite pretty,” George had shrugged and took his pencil case and notebook out of his bag, aligning them neatly on the table._

_“Ask her out then,” Alex had said, and there was a curtness to his voice that felt like he wanted to end the conversation. So George did._

George doesn’t ask out the girl, because he’s too scared. She’s one of the popular girls who could easily make fun of him if he says something wrong, or does something embarrassing. So George keeps to himself and just smiles at her every now and then in the hallway instead. 

“Did you not ask her out?” Alex frowns one day, while they’re taking their schoolbooks out of their lockers. 

George shakes his head and fumbles with the lock. “No, I don’t like her enough.”

Alex seems pleased with this, pink painting the apples of his cheeks. “That’s very wise of you, Georgie.”

George learns that Alex doesn’t really care about girls. George doesn’t know why, because every boy in his class seems to be interested in girls. In every class they attend, there are about three different couples, and it’s the only gossip they ever hear about, so George feels like he must partake in it if he wants to be liked. But Alex is blissful in his girl-less state, and whenever George asks him about a girl he just shrugs and carries on with what he’s doing. 

But one day it’s different. 

Alex looks up at him from the picture he’s drawing. “She’s okay, yeah,” he murmurs in response to a photo of a girl that George shows him. But he turns back to his drawing, pressing so hard with the red crayon that it leaves an indent in the paper.

“Only _okay_ ?” George questions, surprised. “She’s like, _so_ cool.”

And then Alex looks up at him, eyes blue as the sky in the centre of his vision. The same blue eyes that told him they were best-friends forever, years ago. “Do we have to _always_ talk about girls?” He asks, frustration eating at his features. “It’s boring.”

George is hurt, because Alex has never slandered his interests before. He’d always listen intently to everything George says, even when it was about something Alex hated, like _The Romans._ “I’m sorry,” George says quietly. “Do you not like girls?”

“No,” Alex says sharply, scribbling against the page with a purple colour. 

“Oh, do you like boys then?” George laughs, and he’s obviously joking, but Alex freezes, body rigid like he’s been shot. Alex hand, which was previously busy against the paper, has frozen too, crayon limp between his fingers. 

There’s a silence, and George doesn’t know what it means. He wishes that Alex wouldn’t confuse him, because it makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“I don’t like anybody,” Alex says finally, scribbling against the paper again.

“Not even me?” George says. And Alex laughs at that, shaking his head. 

“You’re my best-friend, stupid,” Alex says, and pokes his finger on the back of George’s hand. George thinks about that single movement all night, but can’t, for the life of him, think why.

*

By the time George is sixteen (and Alex is almost sixteen), they’ve almost fully grown into their faces. Their heights have shot up again, but yet again they remain one of the shortest in their classes. 

Alex’s voice finally drops, but he’s still slim with bony knees and a more pronounced jawline. He’s taller than George by an inch, but George dwarfs him in every other sense. He starts working out at the gym down the road, starts eating healthier until his face becomes more chiselled. He even lets his facial hair grow out a little bit, even though Alex jokes with him about it, calls him _Mister Beard._ It’s hardly a beard, George thinks. It’s just _stubble_. 

Alex, however, experiments with his style. He begins to wear a lot of pink clothing to school, and lets his hair grow so it falls over his face in a messy fringe that he has to keep pushing out of his eyes whenever he focuses on something in class. He begins to cart an old skateboard around school with him, tucked under his arm like a school-bag. It makes George happy to see that Alex is growing into himself and seeming happier. George thinks he looks pretty when Alex wears clothes that he actually likes.

And regardless of what his interests are, Alex is still the sun and the centre of everything like always. 

George doesn’t have as many classes with Alex now, because of their upcoming exams. Alex chooses to study PE and Business, while George picks Art and Music. It doesn't mean they don’t see each other, it just feels strange not having Alex by his side in every class. 

George is forced to socialise with other people in his art and music classes, but they probably prefer the other students to him because they actually speak up and don’t go bright red in the face whenever a question is asked their way. Every class, George just finds himself checking the time on his watch until the lesson ends, and then he sprints outside of school and runs down towards the sports hall to wait for Alex to finish his classes.

“How was painting?” Alex asks him after classes finish, hair wet against his face from the shower he's probably had after PE. He looks nice like that, George thinks, but brushes the thought away.

“It was okay,” George says. “How was PE?”

Alex grins at him. “It was good. I teamed up with this boy called Archie, and we almost won, but then someone else cut in front of us and tripped us up.”

George had missed it when Alex ranted to him, because there was nothing he adored more than the sound of Alex’s voice when he’s excited. He’d flap his arms about and dramatically reenact every scenario that he could think of. 

“That sounds great,” George smiles at him in the way he always does, permanently in a state of endearment for everything that Alex says.

“I like him a lot,” Alex admits. “He skateboards like me, but he’s a lot better, so he’s going to teach me.”

George feels something strange twist inside of his gut, but he assumes it’s just pride for Alex. “Oh,” he says. “Are you going to hang out with him today?”

Alex looks at him. “Yeah, we’re going to the skate-park.”

George feels a bit left out. He wishes he was good at sports so Alex would like him more. “That’s cool,” he murmurs, and tries his hardest to sound enthusiastic, but he’s not the best at replicating emotions he isn’t feeling. He hopes that Alex doesn’t catch on.

“You should come,” Alex adds. “I could try teaching you how to skate again, but on a real ramp this time.” He looks excited at this, eyes wide and enthusiastic.

“But Archie is teaching _you,”_ George says, knowing how disgustingly jealous he sounds. “You don’t need me there, don’t worry, Al.”

Alex punches him good-naturedly. “Of course I need you there. You’re my best-friend.”

And the look in Alex eye is so earnest and painfully honest that George can’t bear the thought of even letting him down. So he mumbles out a ‘fine’, and Alex’s grin widens.

They head to the skate-park that evening, and the sky’s a pinkish-orange that casts a warm light over their neighbourhood and the contours of Alex’s face. He’s pretty every day, but this evening George can hardly take his eyes off him, for he’s the centre of everything, clad in light-washed blue jeans that he’s cuffed at the bottom, and a pink shirt that dwarfs his small frame.

“I like your shirt,” George states simply, hopes it’s enough.

Alex turns to him from where he’s walking beside him, shoots him a warm smile. “I like you.”

George doesn't know what Alex was supposed to mean by that, but something twists in his gut.

“I think red is your colour,” Alex adds, and smooths the fabric on his shoulder with a concentrated eye.

When they finally arrive at the skate-park, it’s busy and George can feel his heart rise up into his throat as he’s accidentally bumped into by skaters and pushed past by impatient shoulders. There are too many people here and George hates it, although Alex seems to notice his discomfort and looks down to gently lace their fingers together. 

George looks down at their interlaced fingers before looking back up at Alex. “I’m okay.”

Alex nods. “We don’t have to stay here,” he says kindly. “There’s no room to skate anyways.”

He’s not going to ruin Alex’s fun with his new friend, Archie. He’s been looking forward to it all day, and has spent a long time telling George about how much he likes him. “It’s fine, the crowd will leave soon.”

Alex grins at him, runs a hand through his overgrown fringe, before noticing Archie standing at the top of one of the ramps, gives him a little wave. “Are you okay if I go talk to him?” He says, still holding his hand loosely.

George nods. “Have fun,” he says, voice tight, but Alex has already unlaced their fingers, skipping off towards the ramp, pink skateboard gripped tightly in his hand. He watches as he scales the ramp to reach Archie, stands up beside him. Archie greets him warmly, squeezes his shoulder before appearing to compliment his skateboard. 

So George just busies himself on the smaller ramps, tries to keep his balance as he rides but every time he tries, he manages to scrape and bruise another part of his body. So eventually George finds himself sitting at the edge of the skate-park on the grass, fiddling with the wheels on Alex’s old skateboard. Every time George turns to look at Alex, he’s laughing like a hyena at something Archie’s said, or he’s doing some trick on his board that makes George smile. Every time he does something he’s proud of, he turns to George and gives him a mini thumbs-up, before he’s turning back to whatever Archie is saying.

Well, at least Alex isn’t completely ignoring him, George thinks. 

But then moments later, when George has focused back down on the wheels of his skateboard, he hears the sound of a commotion from the other end of the park. George’s head snaps to the direction of the sound, and then _oh, fuck._ Alex is on the ground, cradling his arm to his stomach. 

George doesn’t think he’s moved so fast in his life, because one minute he’s cross-legged on the grass and the next he’s kneeling next to Alex on the concrete.

“Alex?” He says worriedly, ghosts his fingers against his arm, a reassuring action. “What happened?” There’s a group of skater boys watching them from afar, and George feels uncomfortable by their presence, but Alex is his priority right now so he tries to ignore them.

Alex meets his gaze, crystalline eyes wide as saucers. “Landed awkwardly,” he says, trying to come off as fine in front of the other skaters, but George knows he’s in a lot of pain. Archie approaches them on his skateboard before skidding to a halt neatly and stepping off.

“You good, Al?” he asks nicely enough, but looks at George when he says it, something strangely menacing in his eyes. 

Alex nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.” _He’s not. He’s lying._ Alex’s teeth are gritted together and he’s digging his nails so hard into his hand that he leaves little crescent-moon shaped marks in the skin.

“Get up, then,” Archie says. “You gonna try that trick again?”

Alex nods meekly, gets up from where he was curled up on the floor. He winces in pain as he retrieves his board from where it must’ve stopped rolling. George doesn’t like seeing him like this, hates seeing him in pain.

“It’s all part of the process,” Archie says. “Everyone falls over when they start out.”

Alex nods. “It still hurts,” he says, practically short of breath. “I don’t think I should risk hurting it again.”

Archie rolls his eyes at this, kicks his own board up and back down impatiently. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “You’re clearly fine.”

Alex just nods, defeat written all over his face. George wants to speak up, wants to tell Archie to _fuck off_ for talking so rudely to his best-friend, but Archie is taller than him, bigger than him. Could easily knock him out in one punch, so George tries to remain polite.

“I think he’s…” George starts, lump in his throat. “I think he’s actually injured.” George watches as Alex sits back down on the ground again, cradling his arm against his chest. 

Archie laughs in his face, turns to the other skaters and they all laugh too. George’s face _burns._ “He’s fine,” Archie bites out sharply, towering over him. “Welcome to the real fucking world. People get injured when they skate, just like your little boyfriend here.”

George grits his teeth. “He’s… he’s not my boyfriend,” he tries to say calmly, and doesn’t look Alex in the eye when he says it. “He’s my best-friend.”

“Well, he likes boys, doesn't he?” Archie laughs coldly, and George balls his fists at his sides in anger. “You and him make a right good match.” 

“He’s not like that,” George defends, heat rising to his throat. His voice feels strangled and thick in his neck. “Leave Alex alone.” George notices that the rest of the skate-park has gone uncomfortably silent, everybody craning their necks to see whatever drama is unfolding.

Archie kicks up his skateboard and slings it under his arm. “You’re a fucking weirdo. You probably like boys too.” And then with that, Archie rolls his eyes at them and walks away, all of the other skaters following in his wake, as if he’s a celebrity. George is still vibrating with anger as the group of kids leave the skate-park, his breath too loud and a high pitched noise ringing in his ears.

“Alex, I’m sorry,” George babbles the second they're alone in the skate-park, falling onto his knees beside him. “That was all my fault.” He’s panicking, because he can’t lose Alex’s friendship, especially after six years. He wouldn’t know what to do without him. 

But Alex isn’t angry, which is surprising because George has definitely fucked up a friendship for him. He looks up at George with big blue eyes, eyelashes long and dark. “You stood up for me,” he says softly.

George frowns. “Well, he was being a dick and spreading lies about you, so I wasn’t going to let him just _get away with it_ ,” he explains. 

Alex doesn’t say anything for a long time, doesn’t even look him in the eye like he normally does when he speaks to him. He just looks silently at the mark his skateboard made on the concrete when he fell, still gripping his injured arm with the other.

“Alex?” George asks gently, worried he’s done something to offend him.

“I need to tell you…” Alex murmurs, jaw tight. He spins one of the dirtied pink wheels of his skateboard. 

George is confused, because Alex tells him _everything_ , from what he had for breakfast, to his favourite comic, to his opinion on whether their schoolteachers Mrs. Goldsmith and Mr. Jacobs are secretly dating, to, when George stays over, whispered confessions at 1am about his parents’ divorce. 

“What do you mean?” George questions, hair blowing in his face from the evening wind. The sky’s still pink like the tip of Alex’s nose, and there’s something poignant about it, but George can’t put a name to anything in his mind.

“Archie’s right about all that, you know,” Alex mumbles, bottom lip quivering slightly. Then he looks up at George, eyes shining with tears. 

“What do you mean? Why are you crying?” George asks in alarm, hand reaching out instinctively to Alex’s non-injured shoulder like he normally does, but instead pulls Alex towards him further so that the younger of the two is pressing his tear-stained face into George’s shirt.

“George,” Alex tries. And it’s alarming seeing him like this, because George, more than anything, wants him to be okay. He wants to see Alex happy, because there’s nothing that makes his heart race more than when Alex tips his head back and laughs, exposing the canine teeth that look like little fangs. Friends are supposed to feel like that about each other, right?

“Take your time,” George says, and reaches out to stroke his hand against Alex’s hair. There’s something about the way Alex’s hair feels against his skin that makes George itch to hold him closer, wants to lace their fingers together again, just to see what it feels like to be infinite with Alex.

“No, I…” Alex says, sniffling. “I’m gay, George.”

And _oh._ In milliseconds, memories flicker back in his mind, moments where he couldn’t understand why Alex wouldn’t talk about girls with him, moments where Alex would freeze up when the mean kids at school would call him names. Moments where Alex talked about a boy and blushed a little. And George would always be so confused and would ask him about it, but Alex would brush it off like it was nothing. Now he knew why.

“Al, it’s not…” George starts, but then Alex is sitting up, hair mussed and eyes red from where he was practically lying in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Alex blurts out. “I shouldn’t have…I know this makes things weird now. I should probably go home.”

George’s eyebrows slant downwards. This can’t happen. “No, please!” He says as Alex begins to get up, wincing as he clings onto his injured arm. “I was…I was going to say that it’s not a big deal to me.”

Alex turns around, evening wind blowing through his hair as he looks at George scrambling up from the concrete. George thinks he’s really pretty. Possibly the prettiest person in the world. “Really?”

“Yeah,” George says quietly. “It could never be weird between us. Unless you were like, a murderer or something.”

And then Alex laughs a watery tear-glazed laugh, but he tips his head back and shows his teeth, and there’s nothing that George loves more than when he laughs like that.

“Can I see your arm then?” George says. “It looks painful.”

So they both sit opposite each other at the top of the skateboard-ramp, and Alex holds out the offending limb, just like when they were smothered in mud on the football field as ten-year-olds. 

_Déjà-vu._

“Remember when you used to know first-aid,” Alex says, grinning at him. “I remember thinking that you were the coolest person in the world.”

George goes a bit red at this, but continues to examine his arm. “I was a weird kid,” he mutters, pressing his thumbs against Alex’s forearm to see if there’s any bruises. Alex winces at the sensation. “Wish I still knew all of the stuff.”

“I still have the scar on my knee,” Alex announces, and before George knows it, Alex pulls up the leg of his jeans to expose the scar, just the same as he remembered it. “I think about it every now and then.”

George feels something in his heart when Alex runs his finger over the six-year-old scar and then looks up at him, his entire world shining through crystalline, cornflower-blue eyes. Something shoots through George’s mind, a sudden impulse to lean forward and catch Alex’s lips with his own, a desire to feel Alex clambering onto his lap. 

And _what the fuck?_ Alex is just his friend, right? Nothing more and nothing less. He’s just his best-friend, but George hasn’t stopped thinking about him since he was ten years old. George hasn’t felt the way he does about Alex for anybody else. And George might not have had any other friends, but he knows that people who are _just_ friends don’t act like this. Most other people don't think about holding hands with their best-friend and being with them forever. Most other people don't accidentally think about kissing their best-friend.

Then George takes himself out of his mind, and when he focuses back, Alex is looking at him with concern.

“You okay?” Alex asks with a frown.

“Yeah,” George laughs, not looking Alex in the eye in case he accidentally feels something for him again. “I’m good.”

“My arm feels better now,” Alex says, wiggling it about. “It only hurts a little bit.”

George is relieved. “That’s good, because if you’d sprained it then it would be really hard for you to play football.” He knows how much Alex values sports, and how upset he would be if he wasn’t able to play. And anything that causes Alex distress, causes George to feel great discomfort too. 

When they leave the skate-park, it’s dark and there’s a biting coldness to the air that makes the hairs on George’s arms raise up. Alex walks beside him, pink t-shirt grubby, half untucked, and the knees of his light-washed jeans scuffed. He holds his skateboard under one arm, and the other arm swinging by his side, too close to George’s. It would only take a second for him to reach a finger or two and slide their palms together.

“George?” Alex blurts out, shoes scuffing against the pavement as they walk together.

“Yeah?” George says, catching his eye under the faint glow that the streetlights cast over them.

“I know you said that me being _me_ wouldn’t make anything weird,” Alex says, “but, George, if it _does_ freak you out, then I understand if you want to make new friends.” There’s terror in his voice, and George suddenly realises how big of a thing this is to Alex, how many sleepless nights he’s probably had thinking about himself. And now is the most important time for him to be there for Alex.

“God, you’re an idiot,” George says. “I don’t want new friends.” Alex looks down at the ground at this, and George sees a pink flush coat Alex’s cheeks.

“Are you sure?” 

“I need you, Al,” George says. “I would be a totally friendless loser if it wasn’t for you.” And then, in the darkness, George reaches out and takes Alex’s hand in his own. There’s something special about them holding hands in the darkness of their neighbourhood, and it’s poignant because nobody can see them. There’s nobody to judge them or shout horrendous names across the street.

“I like it when you hold my hand,” Alex says, and George’s heart is racing in his chest, a burning desire to do something that he can’t pinpoint. Something that fulfils the aching gap that stretches over his heart.

George doesn’t reply, but he feels like they’re everything at that moment.

*

It’s two years later, thirty seconds past midnight and George is at the bottom of the stairs, pressed up against the wall, dialling numbers hurriedly on the shared landline phone. It rings for a long time, and George is terrified that it’ll go to voicemail. He’s terrified that Alex won’t care anymore, scared that he has better things to do and other people to see, now that George is away.

But then it picks up, there’s a shuffling and a muffled _‘Hello?’_ . George practically jumps for joy, because it’s _him_. It's Alex, voice the same in his ear like always.

“Happy birthday,” George whispers, anxious that he’s going to wake up everybody else in the house. 

And George hasn’t ever rung him from this number before, so there's no reason why Alex would even know who was ringing him. But still, Alex inhales a sharp breath through the phone. 

“ _George_?”

“How do you know it’s me?” George questions, sliding down the wall so he’s sitting on the grubby carpet with his knees up against his chest and the telephone in one hand. 

“ _I recognised your voice,”_ Alex says hastily. _“But…why haven’t you called me before? I missed you, and–"_

George feels a horrible sense of guilt rise into his throat. He must’ve looked like a dickhead. “I’m sorry, I only just moved into the flat,” he explains. “We didn’t get the phone line up and running until today.”

Alex exhales into the phone. “ _I thought you were ignoring me_.”

“No, no, I would never.” George says, panicked at the fact that Alex thought that. “But, tell me how you feel now you’re eighteen.”

And Alex goes off onto one of his long explanations, telling him about every emotion he’s felt since George has gone, every thought he’s had about being eighteen years old. George just listens like he always used to, lets Alex ramble away to him about anything and everything. 

“ _But how’s uni?_ ” Alex finishes, taking a breath. George doesn’t like the silence, the bits in life that Alex doesn’t fill. He hates the moments where Alex isn’t there to finish his sentences, talk his ear off. It feels like something is drastically missing, and George hates it.

“Good,” George says, looks around at the grubby flat inhabited by cardboard boxes. “Classes don’t start for a few days so I’m gonna spend some time sorting out my stuff.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Alex this, when in reality he just wants to tell him he’s missing him. “Hopefully won’t be sleeping on a camping bed on the floor for much longer.”

Alex laughs down the phone, the giggly one that makes George’s heart race. But somewhere in his head he’s hoping that Alex is doing the laugh where he tips his head back and covers his mouth with his hand. “ _Well, if you fuck up your back, I’m not knocking it back into place._ ”

George laughs, but suddenly feels a wave of sadness burst through his veins. “I miss you,” he says, voice wavering in his throat.

“ _When are you coming home?_ ” Alex asks, voice small and gentle. George imagines him curled up in front of the phone, knees tucked to his chest and fringe mussed over his eyes. He wishes he could hug him, hold his hand. 

George doesn’t know. “In a few weeks,” he estimates. “I’ll come see you, Al, I swear.”

Alex sniffles down the phone. “ _Please don't be long. I’m having to hang out with the football team and my coworkers from the café. They’re annoying_.”

“I promise,” George says sincerely. “When I come back, we’ll hang out the entire time.”

“ _Promise?_ ”

“Yeah,” George whispers. “See you soon…Happy birthday.”

And then he ends the call, silence booming in his ear like tinnitus. George should probably go to bed.

*

Before George takes the train back to university after his break, Alex clings to him like he doesn’t want to let go. They wander the roads of their neighbourhood, visit the skateboard park, stand outside the gates of their old schools. Because their entire childhoods were built there, first friendships, first mistakes.

“Eight years ago,” Alex says, pointing through the fence towards the part of the school grounds where the football pitch used to be located. “Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, eight long years with the most insufferable twat I’ve ever known,” George says. “Worst thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Alex punches him in the arm, but it doesn’t hurt because Alex isn’t capable of causing harm to anybody. “Cunt,” he says. “I was being nostalgic.” He looks pretty today, kitted out in a brand new shirt and pink mini shorts that barely cover his thighs. George feels corrupt for staring a second too long.

They walk along the road towards the train station, every single minute feeling too short until George has to leave. Because he’s torn, he wants him there. George wants his degree with Alex by his side, but Alex doesn’t want to go to university, so he has to figure this out himself. He’s going to have to find other friends, but George doesn’t know how he’s going to do that.

“George,” Alex starts, eyes looking away from him. It feels like everything they’ve ever experienced in one moment but spun backwards, the opposite direction, because while Alex can't meet his gaze, George finds himself unable to look anywhere else, because it’s all _Alex Alex Alex._ He knows he’s stupid to find himself so deep and so far, especially after eight years of friendship, a dynamic that could be ruined if something were to go wrong, if George were to confess.

“Mhm?” George muses, drags his suitcase along behind him. He doesn’t know how he's going to cope, another few months without Alex. 

“I need to tell you something.”

And it’s serious because he’s looking at George the same way he did when he came out to him years ago, eyes big and blue in the centre of his vision, everything else falling away in the background like tunnel vision. And, God, if George wasn’t whipped before, he definitely is now.

“You can tell me anything, Al.”

Alex’s lip shudders as he inhales. “I’ve needed to tell you this for years.”

And maybe George has been hiding something for years too, so they’re equals, like sides of a coin. But George doesn’t know how to say it with words. “Tell me,” George whispers, presses a comforting hand against Alex’s slim shoulder. They’re practically in the middle of the road, by the train station, but it’s a quiet evening and there’s barely any cars or people rushing about.

“You won’t want to be my friend after this,” Alex says. “I just wanted to tell you before you leave again.”

George doesn’t say anything, just swallows something heavy and painful in his throat. 

“I think…” Alex starts, but then he pauses, before looking George straight in the eye. He’s thinking about something; he’s changed his mind. “Uh…I’m just going to miss you, that’s all.” 

George blinks. “Alex…” he says, but he has a look in his eye that’s making him doubt everything he previously thought was true.

“No. It’s…” Alex says. “It’s too late.” 

“What?” And George can see Alex shaking his head, something behind his eyes that feels like it’s going to end. George doesn't want this; he needs Alex to know before he’s back in university and back to his boring part-time day-job where he picks up and puts down the telephone.

“Your train will be here soon,” Alex says, and swallows hard. “I’ll see you—”

George panics, because he’s not good with words, and there’s no way he can come to any logical conclusion, no way in hell that he could tell Alex how he feels. “No. Fucking hell, Al,” he manages, jaw tight in his mouth like it’s been screwed too tight. “You’re so goddamn stupid sometimes.” And then in it all happens at once, because one minute they’re opposite each other in the road, wind messing up their hair like it doesn’t give a shit about them, and the next moment George thinks _fuck it,_ leans over rough tarmac and kisses Alex like the world is ending right there. A kiss that Alex clearly wasn’t expecting because he squeaks into George’s mouth. And it only takes a few seconds before Alex practically melts into him, the wild surge of Alex’s acceptance the only solidity that he can make out through his dizzying mouth. And when George feels Alex’s cold hand slide to the back of his neck, he knows that Alex is kissing him back.

But when Alex breaks away, his cheeks are all pink and so is the tip of his nose, the sprinkling of freckles that dance over his cheekbones and forehead suddenly so much more perfect in George’s eyes. It’s always been him, from the moment the crowd parted and George could see ten-year-old Alex smeared in mud on the ground, tear-stained face unrivalled even back then. It was Alex when he’d run across the field towards him after football practise, babbling away about the game and the goals he’d scored. And it was even Alex that day at the skate park when he hurt his arm, George’s only memory being himself sliding down beside Alex on the concrete to check if he was seriously injured. And the fact that he could hardly remember what those stupid skater kids’ names were was because they were irrelevant back then and they were hardly relevant now.

“Ring me when you get there,” Alex breathes with a smile, cheeks even pinker than before. God, George wants to drape pretty flowers in his hair and kiss the life out of him. But then Alex is turning around and in a second that stretches out too far in George’s brain, he walks away, rounds the corner and disappears down the road, back to his house. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed then feel free to leave a kudos and comment, i rlly appreciate it :)


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